I Don't Have Friends, I've Only Got One
by TBGWNMHGB
Summary: Sherlock is forced to believe that John has died after taking a bullet for him. But has he really?
1. Chapter 1

(Unknown)

John woke up in what looked like a hospital room. He was lying in a bed. The faint beeping of monitors luring him into consciousness. Opening his eyes he took in his surroundings. The room was painted white with tiled floors of the same color. The room was windowless. He was caught slightly off guard with the hospital room's odd attributes. He blinked as his memory started to come back. He remembered being on a case with Sherlock when the perpetrator pulled out a gun, and shot. Not bothering to consider the consequences he jumped in front of his best friend just before the bullet could get to him. Taking it for himself.

Wait, where's Sherlock? He was fine, right? John felt a surge of panic as he tried to sit up. Pain. Far more pain than he would like to be possible. The monitors to his left went off as he experimentally raised himself into a more upright position. Moments later a nurse walked in. When he saw John's predicament he quickly went up to him and grabbed his iv. Producing a small syringe he plunged it into the opening and gave John a dose of much needed morphine. "It's good to see you awake Dr. Watson. You had us worried there for awhile." John relaxed into the bed slightly as his pain was brought down to a tolerable level.

"I was with a man named Sherlock Holmes. Is he here? I-I he alright?" John asked as the pain finally allowed him to talk. His heart skipped a beat when the man didn't answer right away. Just as he was about to speak another figure walked through the door. The familiar bored voice of the elder Holmes brother came sweeping through the room. Umbrella in tow.

"I believe I should be able to answer your questions." He strode up to John as he gave a small nod to the nurse, who took the hint and left. Closing the door behind him. John wasted no time in speaking up.

"How's Sherlock?" His voice holding a touch of desperation.

"Sherlock is well." His expression never changed. The army doctor let out a sigh of relief.

"Where is he? May I see him?"

"He is at St Bart's." John looked up at him with confusion. You mean he isn't at St Bart's? If not where is he? Mycroft must have sensed his bewilderment as he spoke the answer before John had the chance to ask.

"No John you are not in any hospital that you would know of. As for which one exactly, I cannot tell you." He paused for a moment. His face unreadable. But John swore that he saw a flicker of dread move across it. "But there is something that we must discuss concerning Sherlock."

"Mycroft, he's okay right. Don't lie to me." His voice wavered.

"I assure you John I am not lying when I say that he is perfectly fine. Your actions saved his life." Was that gratitude he just heard?

"My brother has been extremely reckless as of late. And it has nearly cost both of your lives. Which is why I intend to take desperate measures in order to make him realize what he is doing." If John wasn't completely confused before, he definitely was now. He was almost afraid to ask. He had seen the government official's casual measures. The ramifications of a desperate Mycroft isn't something he'd like to imagine.

"Now before I tell you, keep in mind that you cannot interfere. I will order you to be put into a medically induced coma if you try to interfere. Am I understood?" John's confusion had been almost entirely replaced with fear. He paled as he gave a sharp nod.

"To teach my brother that his, nor your life, is disposable, I have sent one of my doctors to St Bart's with instructions to tell Sherlock that you died during your operation." John didn't know how to react to that. He stared at Mycroft in shock as he continued, "You will be staying at this hospital until discharge. Where you will be free to go back." He hesitated for a moment, "To clear up whatever worries you may have, DI Lestrade has been informed of my plan in order to keep Sherlock from doing anything drastic." At last remembering how to talk again John spoke up with the first question that popped up in his head.

"Doing anything drastic?" He repeated. What did he expect Sherlock to do. His plan was downright ludicrous but he figured that in the event of his death Sherlock would be over it fairly quickly. It didn't take the "High-Functioning Sociopath" himself to see that social graces were an afterthought to him. Mycroft actually looked surprised at this.

"Surely you know the effect your death would have on him." John was silent once more. "I fear that if he truly believed you dead...he may attempt to take his own life. Which is why you get the same treatment as Sherlock. Because the end of you, would be the end of him." Even Mycroft seemed uncomfortable with saying it. He didn't know what to say. Mycroft decided to leave the doctor to process what he had heard. "I will check on you tomorrow. I'd advise you to rest. The bullet had barely missed your heart." Without another word he turned around and left.

Readjusting John Had suddenly become aware of the thick bandages covering the better part of his torso. He sighed unable to calm himself enough to sleep. His mind was consumed with hope that Sherlock was alright.

(St Bart's)

Sherlock and Lestrade were in the ER waiting room. Sherlock had gone into his mind palace in a corner chair. Lestrade had been pacing nonstop. Not out of worry for John's life, but for Sherlock. He had felt nothing but dread since Mycroft had kidnapped him and explained his plans for the week. He was told that John was perfectly fine, and in the hands of the finest doctors that England had to offer. But that wasn't what he was worried about. He was also told that a doctor was going to come out, and tell them that John had died. He said to act distraught, that Sherlock would be too torn up to deduce that he was acting. His task was to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't harm himself, or someone else. Mrs. Hudson gotten a "spontaneous invitation" from her sister out of town. Thank god for that.

He was about to go and get another cup of coffee when a doctor called out. "Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Lestrade." Oh no. He didn't know if he could do it. Sherlock was pulled from his mind palace, his tall frame was hovering over the doctor in an instant. Lestrade did his best to look hopeful as he jogged up to the doctor.

"So, when can I see him?" Sherlock spoke up for the first time since they had gotten there. And it damn near broke Lestrade's heart. The doctor looked back at him with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. "I'm very sorry Mr. Holmes. But John passed away on the operating table."

Sherlock froze. It was as if he was a statue. He stared at him dumbly for a moment. "Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted. Barely able to choke down his own emotions.

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?" He didn't answer. His facial expression changed, as if he had just understood what he said. He turned around with his coat flowing behind him. He was out of the hospital in seconds. Lestrade was about to chase after until the doctor spoke up again, "I have been instructed to once again remind you that you must never reveal the truth to him. Mr. Holmes will inform him himself when he believes the time is right." Lestrade was furious, but knew better than to anger the elder Holmes. So he simply nodded in response before running out in the same direction Sherlock went. The doctor left as well. There would be no need to tell his boss that the deed was done, because he had been watching the live security feed the entire time.

(Unknown)

After some tense arguing and a few choice words from John, Mycroft finally allowed him to watch the security feed with him as Sherlock was told of his, "death" John's bed had been raised to let him sit up. Mycroft had pulled up a chair next to the bed in question. He held up a tablet with the live feed for John to watch. As much as John was concerned about Sherlock, he knew that it was live. Not only was he seeing it for the first time, but so was Mycroft. He had known for years now that the Holmes brothers were practically emotionless. But this seemed to go too far. Even for the "minor government official"

It started up and he instantly felt bad for the DI. He knew Lestrade. The poor man was most likely threatened into doing this. Even with his quick pacing you could easily see the dread on his face. Then a doctor can into view.

"Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Lestrade." The two men nearly ran up to him.

"So, when can I see him?" John felt his heart sink. The look on Lestrade's face started to get to him.

"I'm very sorry Mr. Holmes. But John passed away on the operating table." He never knew how weird it was to hear your own death being announced. He briefly wondered if that was how Sherlock felt when he faked his own. Oh. He stared at Sherlock's face. He was now starting to regret asking to join. Mycroft face was once again, unreadable.

"Sherlock?" He heard Lestrade's gentle prompt at the still detective. Lestrade himself looked like he was about to cry.

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?" The doctor tried to break Sherlock from his apparent trance. Sherlock's face suddenly lit up in a burst of realization and horror. Before running out of the hospital without another word. John felt ill. Looking to his left, even Mycroft had the decency to look uncomfortable. Lestrade was about to leave after him but the doctor interrupted.

"I have been instructed to once again remind you that you must never reveal the truth to him. Mr. Holmes will inform him himself when he believes the time is right."

John felt a little satisfaction at seeing the look Lestrade shot at him before finally running after Sherlock.

Suddenly Mycroft stood up with the tablet. "That is all for now John. You are welcome to see the other feeds whenever those are available."

"You mean the CCTV." Mycroft hesitated.

"Actually, while what you saw was taking place, I had one of my men install a microphone into 221b. I felt it best to have at least audio feeds on the apartment." John looked at him with a blank face wondering if he should even be surprised. Mycroft went on, "It is set to alert me with loud noises...chemical fumes...and gunpowder." John looked horrified for the upteenth time that night. Mycroft stood before turning to leave. "You will be alerted in the event that anything of interest occurs." With that he was gone.

(221b)

Sherlock had cleared his mind by time he got back to the flat. He sat in his chair. Staring at the empty on across from his. He felt like he couldn't breath properly. He still refused to fully accept it. John was dead. His best friend was dead. And it was all his fault. Lestrade had lost him when got into a cab. It seems that he finally decided to leave him alone. He couldn't think. He hated it. It wasn't like he could just spout off the hazy deductions he obtained from the hospital. John wasn't there to listen. And he never would be again. It was on that thought that for the first time in his life, he didn't want to think about it.

His brothers scolding words echoed in his mind as he reached for his violin, "Caring is not an advantage." He decided that he had been right all along.


	2. Chapter 2

(221b)

Sherlock did one of the only things that can keep his mind busy. Playing his violin. He picked it up and gingerly placed it onto his shoulder. He didn't have a particular piece in mind. He just played whatever felt right at the moment. The piece ended up being a somber toned waltz with slow, expressive vibrato. He continued for five minutes before his mind started to wander. Every time he would play. John would sit at his chair listening intently. He would comment on or praise whatever he played. Usually his violin was reserved for boredom. So John would make tea. He would always make him a cup without asking. Then he would put it on the table for Sherlock to have when he was finished with whatever he was doing. As the memories came, the waltz became more emotional. Heavy vibrato had been laced into every note. It would be described by anyone as beautiful.

His thought pattern changed however as he started to think about the incident itself. Why hadn't he pushed John out of the way? How could he have been so careless? When did John deem Sherlock's life more important than his?! His waltz abruptly ended with a violent flourish of a crescendo as the instrument was tossed aside on the couch.

He once again sat down on his chair. Why couldn't he do anything? Why did he let john die? Why couldn't it just hit him?! He held his head in his hands as his mind was assaulted with an aggressive wave of thoughts and ideas. He couldn't take it. his mind palace was hardly an escape either. Every hallway, every turn, had John in them. No matter what he did he just couldn't get his fallen friend out of his head. His only blessing was that the day's events had worn on him so severely that he fell asleep curled up in his chair. Desperately hoping that he would wake up to find the other one occupied.

Sherlock had woken up a mere 6 hours later. His sleep was fitful and restless. He kept seeing John get shot on an endless loop. The criminal would pull a gun out of his jacket pocket. John would notice this, and jump in front of Sherlock. A shot would be heard. John would collapse. He would call Lestrade. A helicopter would pick up John. And the dream would end, only to be replaced by the next. It was exhausting.

His phone started to ring from across the room. He pulled himself from the chair and lazily walked over to read the caller ID. Lestrade. He sighed in annoyance and brought the phone to his ear. "Sherlock?" He waited for Sherlock to respond. When he didn't he asked again. A touch more frantic. "Sherlock!? You okay?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine Lestrade. Get to the point of your call before I hang up." The replied was almost immediate.

"I've got a case so that you can...you know, get your mind off things." Sherlock did need something to get his mind off John. But it wouldn't be the same.

"I don't want cases Lestrade. If there is anything you can do, it'd be to catch the criminal that…" His voice went dark as he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Of course I am Sherlock. I've got half the Yard on it!" Lestrade hated lying through his teeth. But in truth Mycroft had already caught the guy. As for what he ended up doing with him, Lestrade didn't want to ask. He was still kicking himself for calling. He wanted to see Sherlock in person. he really did. But he didn't know if he could keep up the whole facade. If he didn't let the truth slip, Sherlock would undoubtedly deduce it. But if the look on his face last night was anything to go by, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle anymore. He decided it was best to change the subject.

"About the case. It's a double murder. Victims shot. All the fingers were removed from the bodies with surgical precision."

"I don't want a case Lestrade." The DI was getting desperate.

"I could take the rest of the day off. We could go for drinks, or I could come to your flat. Of course you're always welcome in mine." Sherlock was silent. "What do you say Sherlock?"

"...Fine. Your place." Case or not, not being attacked by memories every other minutes sounded good enough. Lestrade let out an audible sigh of relief.

"I'll come pick you up. I'll be there in a few minutes okay?" The phone call ended. Sherlock picked up his violin and started playing a solo piece by Bach.

It only took fifteen minutes for Lestrade to knock on his door. "Sherlock?" He never figured out why he always knocked. He had a spare key after all.

"It's open." Sherlock said flatly. With the soft sound of the door knob the detective walked in. Sherlock placed his violin on his chair in response. Lestrade turned to face him.

"Well, let's be on our way then."

(Unknown)

When Sherlock faked his death. Mycroft didn't know until the day afterwards. Sherlock had come to to his door, asking for help in taking down Moriarty's web. The experience had shaken him to the core. For those 16 hours immediately after he "jumped" he thought that he had lost his brother. So in response, he wired Sherlock's phone to record the calls, and set the microphone in his flat. It had been there for months now. But John didn't need to know that. He only turned them on when they sent him alerts. He had the habit of tuning in when Sherlock played his violin. It calmed him. Let him know that the residents of 221b were safe. The night of John's supposed death, he checked in on Sherlock only to hear his gut wrenching solo. The violent notes at the end making him jump. And for the first time in as long as he could remember Mycroft felt guilty.

His plan was very hastily made. But his anger and worry at the time made it seem perfectly reasonable. He thought that if Sherlock wouldn't take his warnings seriously, he could scare him into it. He had assumed that his brother would grieve with anger. Furious at the world for ruthlessly taking away his friend. But he never expected Sherlock to be like this. He wished he could get a better idea of state of mind. And as if on cue he was alerted that Lestrade was calling his phone. So naturally he listened in.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft frowned at the lack of response. "Sherlock!? You okay?" He listened closely for any sounds of breathing or otherwise on Sherlock's side.

"I'm fine Lestrade. Get to the point of your call before I hang up." While Mycroft had expected a harsh comment, it was Sherlock's tone put Mycroft on edge. It was dead, emotionless. Not at all the expected rage or aggression.

"I've got a case so that you can...you know, get your mind off things." Panic was evident in his voice. But a case was good. Sherlock needed it. He was trying to make a point to his brother. Not scar him.

"I don't want a case Lestrade…" What? Surely he didn't hear that right. Did Sherlock just refuse a case? "...If there is anything you can do, it'd be to catch the criminal that…" Mycroft felt a pang of guilt at Sherlock's voice. It at least satisfied him that the shooter was already behind bars. He feared to think what Sherlock would do to him if he had caught him first. He felt he didn't need the stress of covering for a murder charge.

"Of course I am Sherlock. I've got half the Yard on it!" He felt a bit of relief that at least the detective was a decent liar when the situation called for it.

"About the case. It's a double murder. Victims shot. All the fingers were removed from the bodies with surgical precision." It was perfect. Exactly what Sherlock had needed to get out of his flat.

"I don't want a case Lestrade." Mycroft could only stare blankly at the wall in shock when he heard this. Did Sherlock just turn it down?! If he wasn't guilty before he was becoming flat out remorseful now.

"I could take the rest of the day off. We could go for drinks, or I could come to your flat. Of course you're always welcome in mine." He felt more hopeful as Lestrade continued his persistence. "What do you say Sherlock?"

"...Fine. Your place." Mycroft released the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I'll come pick you up. I'll be there in a few minutes okay?" A second later when the call ended, he sank back in his chair. Resting his hand on his face as he questioned whether he had truly made the right decision or not.

(221b)

Lestrade looked at the man before him. He had to force himself to keep a casual demeanor. Sherlock was paler than usual. His face was expressionless. He hadn't changed his clothes from the previous day. His mop of black curls were sticking up in every direction. "Well, let's be on our way then." Wordlessly Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf before starting to the door. Putting them on as he went. Lestrade had a feeling that it was going to be a long day as he followed.

They descended the staircase and stepped into Baker Street. The cold London air hitting them as they walked. The two quickly went up to Lestrade's car and got in. Himself driving with Sherlock in the passengers. Starting the car he wasted no time in turning on the heater. His apartment was only a five minute drive away. He refrained from making conversation on the way there. He hoped that he could get the him to talk. Or at the very least get him to eat something. He wasn't looking all that well. Lestrade wondered if the man had even slept. He saw that Mycroft was right about one thing though. That Sherlock would be too broken up to deduce anything. Few things had frightened him more.

Once he got to his apartment building he led Sherlock to his place on the first floor. "Here we are. Make yourself comfortable." Sherlock wordlessly walked in and sat on the small couch. Assuming his usual position for when he entered his mind palace. "Tea?"

"Yes."

He took Sherlock accepting the tea as a small victory. Setting the kettle on the stove, they sat in silence until it started to whistle. A minute later Lestrade went to sit across from Sherlock with two mugs of tea. Setting one in front him on the coffee table while he simply held his.

"Have you found anything on the criminal?" He felt absolutely horrible that he wasn't solving John's murder himself. But he didn't think that he could take it. De didn't know if he could stay calm with Anderson and Donavan's idiotic commentary. The only person he had left that he trusted completely, was Lestrade. And Lestrade didn't know how to answer.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. But we haven't found anything," The look on his face nearly made Lestrade cry. He expected to be yelled at. He expected Sherlock to call him an incompetent moron. But instead he simply nodded and began drinking his tea. They were completely silent for the next few hours. Sherlock didn't want to say anything, and Lestrade didn't know what to say in the first place. But unknown to him Sherlock had merely stayed for the company. It was comforting to him. So that afternoon. Lestrade made an offer. "Sherlock, I can take you home, or you're more than welcome to spend the night here." He had hoped to keep a constant eye on the detective. But he knew that forcing him to stay would be taken as unfair, or unnecessary.

"Take me home." He felt a little bit of guilt at not being able to watch him, but he felt a little bit of relief that he didn't seem unstable, or dangerous.

"Alright." The drive was the same as before. Silent but quick. He walked Sherlock to the door of his flat. But before he left he heard Sherlock mumble.

"Thank you Greg." Lestrade had to turn away to hide the tear that escaped.

"Anytime Sherlock." He left and practically ran to his car to head back. After entering he called Mycroft, who had given him his personal number in case anything happened. After dialling he answered almost immediately

"Hello." The elder Holmes voice came through the phone. His tone displaying just a hint of urgency.

"Sherlock's pretty bad Mycroft. I took him over to my flat today to watch him for a bit. Make sure he was okay. He hasn't said any deductions, he refused a case that would normally have him at the Yard in minutes, he won't even look into John's supposed killer! He asked me to do it! I-I don't know if I can keep it up for much longer." He paced as he spoke. Mycroft waited patiently for him to finish his rant. He was worried about Sherlock as much as Lestrade was. But he had to keep to his plan.

"My apologies detective inspector but if we told him right away it would lose its effect." We fought to keep the guilt from rising in his chest.

"I don't care about your stupid plans! Sherlock's in pain! End it already. He been through enough." The sudden outburst surprised him.

"Please Mycroft…I don't know how much more either of us can take. He's dead. He has no emotion when he speaks. Nothing. Today he just sat there in his mind palace for hours." Mycroft knew he had to hang up soon lest his emotions take over his answers. Then he heard he was getting another call. Looking at his phone, he felt his stomach lurch.

"I'm afraid we must cut this conversation short. Sherlock is calling."


	3. Chapter 3

(Unknown)

Mycroft was both terrified, and relieved. He was relieved that he would finally be able to get a sense of Sherlock's state of mind for himself. But after the emotional blow inflicted on him at the hands of Lestrade, he didn't know how much he'd be able to talk. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock had a better understanding of, and more knowledge on his psyche then his own mother. If he wasn't careful, he'd see through everything. This was the excuse he was using. Despite the truth of it, he didn't want to accept that his shame was about to prevent him from facing his brother. But Mycroft knew that if Sherlock was truly in that bad of a state, ignoring the call would only destroy him further. So with a trembling hand, he brought the phone to his ear. "Hello dear brother."

"I assume you know." His voice was flat, and cold. But there was a slight waver in it that made Mycroft's heart clench.

"I am aware of the recent tragedy." Mycroft's tone mirrored Sherlock's. But it was dangerously close to breaking.

"What happened?" Sherlock spoke with a dark undertone.

"What do you mean?"

"You have access to every security camera in Britain, every record of every criminal alive, dead, and ever to live, you have your agents posted everywhere, you have every government system in the country at your beck and call - and you still couldn't do anything about what happened!?" Sherlock's baritone voice cracked as he yelled. Mycroft went numb as he listened. The lump in his throat preventing him from responding. But before he could regain his composure his brother went on.

"I would have given anything Mycroft. Anything. Name a price, and you would have it by midnight. I have absolutely no reason to believe that nothing could have been done." Mycroft furiously blinked back the tears threatening to obscure his vision. He tried fruitlessly to stabilize his voice. He screwed up. He messed up everything.

"You couldn't have sent him to one of your hospitals? You've said yourself that you have access to the best doctors in Britain, and we both know that John wasn't killed instantly." When Sherlock found out the truth he feared that what little of a relationship they did have would be permanently broken. But not telling him was completely out of the question. Even if he did decide to do such a thing, telling John to leave Sherlock as he did during his hiatus would be a another disaster in its own right.

"Well?" Sherlock's voice once again came through the speaker. Mycroft tried relentlessly to find his voice. But couldn't. "I see. So that's how it is. Never speak to me again brother." The phone call ended as Mycroft sat in his desk chair. The phone uselessly held up to his ear. He stared at the wall before him. This whole idiotic plan was completely falling apart at the seam. It was then that the beeping of an alert broke him out of his trance. Gunpowder.

The very air around him seemed to stand still. His mind went blank. He refused to consider what it meant. Not knowing what else to do, he quickly grabbed his tablet off the desk and sprinted towards John's room. Not bothering to close the door behind him.

(Meanwhile)

John started to get restless. He had no way to entertain himself in the "hospital" room. No tv. No books. He was told that it would be too suspicious if his laptop suddenly disappeared from his flat. At least staff brought him the newspaper. He had noticed that his death was never mentioned. Sherlock was on the papers almost daily. And as a result, him too. If he had truly died, he's willing to bet that it would have made the front page. It isn't as if he could truly relax anyway. He couldn't get Sherlock out of his head. To say he was worried would be an understatement. He was starting to feel somewhat better, but he still had the bulky bandages on his chest. Every so often a nurse would come in to have him walk around the room. But that was the most activity he saw.

He was snapped out of his 4th read through of the newspaper when he heard a commotion going on outside his door. He briefly wondered if he should be worried. Staring at the door he jumped when it was slammed open to reveal a panting, and umbrellaless Mycroft. John never thought he would see such intense fear on man's face. He slammed the door shut again as he walked to John's bed.

"The microphone detected gunpowder." Mycroft said breathlessly his eyes wide with panic. John stopped breathing for a second. The Holmes brother pulled up his chair and set the tablet to play. They heard a gunshot, and then they heard another, and another. Mycroft sat glaring at the tablet in horror and confusion and John felt the crushing dread being lifted from his injured his chest. He recognized the sound as one of Sherlock's favorite activities. Shooting the wall. It was done when he was either angry, or extremely bored. He indulged himself in a little bit of amusement as he remembered his reaction to seeing it for the first time.

"Mycroft." He didn't answer. "Mycroft." He said slightly louder. Catching his attention.

"Yes?" He finally said. Concerned at the doctor's reaction. Or rather the lack thereof.

"Don't panic, I know what he's doing." Mycroft locked eyes with the doctor. His eyes were showing more desperation than John had ever seen from him. And will likely ever see. "When Sherlock gets angry, or really bored he takes my gun and shoots at the wall. I thought you would have known since the damage was billed to you last time he did it." He explained calmly. Mycroft looked slightly relieved. But it was clear that something else was bothering him.

Mycroft was about to speak when another noise came from the tablet. It sounded like Sherlock had sat - or rather thrown himself onto the couch. The two stayed silent for a moment as they tried on make out anything else. Small incoherent noises came from the speaker. They steadily became louder. John mentally noted that it almost sounded like a whimper. Mycroft's worry started to grow again. After nearly a minute both Mycroft's and John's faces went blank with realization, as the sounds came in at full volume. Sherlock was crying. The cold, apathetic, emotionless Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, was weeping.

Mycroft sat there in shock. John felt sick. Despite the fact that this entire fiasco was far from his fault he felt an intense crushing guilt at hearing this. The cries of his best friend were something that he thought that he would never hear. But here it was. And he caused it. Wordlessly Mycroft reached over and turned it off. The room was enveloped in a tense silence.

"John." Mycroft called. His face was just barely keeping itself level with the emotions threatening to overcome it, "I believe I have made a terrible mistake."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. Did Mycroft just admit to being wrong? The room went silent again, "John before the microphone gave me an alert, I received a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade." John started to listen more closely at this. Worry once again taking over his thoughts. "He had informed me that Sherlock wasn't doing well. He described his behavior as absolutely emotionless, " Mycroft hesitated for a moment, "He also said that he refused every case that was offered…He even refused what would be your murder case." John didn't answer. Sherlock refusing cases. He almost didn't believe it.

Mycroft's voice grew quiet as he wondered if he should reveal Sherlock's call to him. He weakly began to explain while trying to keep his emotions in check. "During Lestrade's call, I received one from Sherlock." Mycroft stared at the tablet as he said this. But John could swear that he saw tears in his eyes, "his tone was flat. He had called to ask why I couldn't have done anything to prevent your death. He pointed out my influence, and resources stating that he didn't believe that I couldn't have prevented it." Mycroft flinched as the microphone alert sounded. Sherlock was shooting at the wall again.

"How are you feeling John?" Mycroft said all of a sudden. John looked at him before the question registered. So he answered. More than happy to be able to change the subject.

"A bit better. But I'm still feeling weak."

"Can you walk?" John started to get suspicious at what Mycroft was getting at.

"Yes, but don't expect me to run anywhere." Once again Mycroft ended up hesitating.

"...Good. I've decided to end my plans early. Tomorrow morning you'll be discharged, and back at Baker Street." John felt a rush of relief he to have this whole thing finally be over. Mycroft continued, "I apologize John...I realize I have to deal with the consequences of my poor decision. But I have one thing to ask of you." John felt his stomach twist at the sight of Mycroft's face. He had never seen him show this much blatant emotion. "I want you to keep close to Sherlock. I have most likely ruined our already strained relationship with this stunt, and any contact from me will most likely be met with violence. Take care of him John…" Without another word he suddenly stood up, and walked out with his tablet in tow.

John laid back into his bed with the intention of sleeping the rest of the day away. He had only been gone a day and a half, but he couldn't help but miss Sherlock. He didn't know the exact time, he only got an idea of it when the nurses brought him food. So he assumed it to be about 2:00 in the afternoon. Forcing his thoughts to a halt, he fell into a restless sleep on the hard hospital bed.

(Unknown)

Mycroft stood silent in his office. He knew he had a few calls to make with such a drastic change of plans. The revised version was as entailed. Discharge John. Ride with him back to Baker Street. Try to keep his brother from murdering him. He was going to enter the flat first to explain what had happened before letting John in. He truly didn't know how Sherlock was going to react. He felt like a moron. All he wanted was to help him. How did it go so wrong?

He had briefly considered letting Sherlock believe the death was genuine forever to save their relationship. Or whatever was left of it after Sherlock's phone call. But then that would lead to other complications. The only person who thinks that John's dead is Sherlock. And the only ones who know that John isn't, are Lestrade, and himself. No one else even knows about the plan to begin with. Lestrade had told the Yard that John was out of town, and that Sherlock was secluding himself because of it. How would he be able to gracefully release the news to the public? And then there are the problems of telling Lestrade and John of it. Lestrade would fight it to the end. And John would never allow it. What would he even do with John? It isn't as if he would be able to return to London. In fact if he was anywhere in the country, Sherlock would find him. Dissolving his hypothetical plans Mycroft harshly scolded himself for even considering it for a second.

Sighing he sat in his chair and started to make the aforementioned calls. Up first, Lestrade. The phone was answered immediately.

"Is everything alright? What did he say on the phone?" The inspector's voice was completely colored with worry. Mycroft steadied his voice into a forced calm.

"Irrelevant. I have decided to end my plans early. John will be back at Baker Street by noon tomorrow." The line was quiet for a moment.

"Is John alright?" Lestrade couldn't believe that he had forgotten about John in the whole mess. He assumed that he was at least better if he was going straight to the flat and not another hospital.

"John has recovered well. He mentioned weakness, but has regained the ability to walk around. Although he hasn't been eating as much as his doctor would like." Lestrade felt his concern lessen slightly. After a few seconds Mycroft went on before hanging up.

"You have done well. Thank you." Setting his mobile on the desk he felt a tinge of dread. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.


	4. Chapter 4

(Baker Street)

Mycroft fought hard to keep his face from displaying any emotion. He was currently sitting in the back of one of his usual black unassuming cars. 221b's resident doctor at his side. He had put off explaining his plan fully to John, but he felt he didn't need the stress if he didn't approve.

He would enter the flat first and talk to Sherlock. He had intended to explain the situation before John had a chance to come in. He didn't know how he'd deal with the shock of seeing John suddenly waltz right in as if he wasn't six feet under. Thankfully Sherlock hadn't noticed that there wasn't a funeral.

He honestly didn't know what he was going to say. It was safe to assume that Sherlock would refuse to speak with him. The fact that he didn't have a concrete plan nagged at the elder Holmes's conscience.

John was fidgeting. Like Mycroft, he simply didn't know what to expect. His upper torso had been tightly wrapped in layers of bandages. The cast like structure holding the stitches and dressings in place. He felt like he couldn't breath but it was the only way Mycroft's doctors would discharge him. And if it meant that he could finally see Sherlock, then he'd deal with it without complaint.

The car finally parked, ending the tense ride. "I will notify you by phone when you can enter." Mycroft curtly explained as he exited the car. John gave a nod of acknowledgement. He watched Mycroft walked into the door, and open it.

(221b)

Sighing to himself, Mycroft entered the complex on Baker Street. His umbrella tapped softly on the steps as he approached the door to 221b. His hand shook slightly as it lifted from his side. He briefly wondered if he should knock. Coming to the conclusion that Sherlock wouldn't answer, he reached for the doorknob. His hand far too unsteady for his liking. The door opened silently.

Sherlock was sitting on his chair in the prayer position, his eyes closed. Seeing this, Mycroft cautiously entered. He quickly scanned the living room for any nearby weapons. Sherlock was nothing if not unpredictable, and he still couldn't say for sure whether or not he wouldn't just outright attack him. This normally wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that he had insisted that his always hidden-ever present bodyguards stay behind.

Without warning Sherlock's eyes opened. "Why are you here?" Mycroft flinched at his brothers seething tone. Regaining his composure, he answered. Evaluating Sherlock's every movement as he did.

"There is something we must discuss." The younger Holmes looked up at him. His face one of disinterest.

"There is nothing to discuss." Mycroft hesitated. Catching this, Sherlock watched him in mild shock.

"It concerns John." Sherlock bolted up from his chair. Addressing his brother at eye level.

"Leave."

"Sherlock listen-"

"I said get out!" Sherlock shouted. Mycroft knew he had to think quick. Sherlock had taken a defensive stance, his jaw set, and his fists clenched. His piercing eyes searched Mycroft. Subtly calculating how much damage his fist could do to any given area. Mycroft tensed. He couldn't leave for obvious reasons, but the idea of staying was getting less and less appealing by the second. He knew he had to cut to the chase.

Gulping, he forced himself to meet his brother's gaze.

"John's not dead." Silence enveloped the room. Sherlock paled as his face went slack.

"..." He dropped his stance without breaking eye contact. Silently demanding an explanation. Mycroft carefully reached for the mobile in his pocket and sent the text to notify John. He was painfully aware that he may need him to calm Sherlock down after saying why John had "died" in the first place. The younger brother didn't nmotice in his shock.

(John)

John waited impatiently in his seat. Constantly readjusting or fidgeting. His heart pounded painfully against his recently shattered rib cage.

Unable to take it any longer, he pulled out his phone with the intent to ask the government official what was happening. But before he could do anything, he received a text instead.

You may come in now. - MH

Upon seeing this John quickly stuffed the phone back into his pocket, and opened the door. He stepped out of the car and started towards the front door. Going far slower than he would have liked to in an attempt to ease the aching pain around his abused chest.

He had just gotten to the steps leading to 221b when he heard the distinct sound of a punch, and the victim of it hitting the floor. Panic rose in his battered chest.

Adrenaline masked the agony of the now irritated incision as he ran up the staircase.

Mycroft began. "Upon seeing John get shot on CCTV, I sent in a helicopter. But after I deduced that the bullet was meant for you...I decided to try and frighten you into being less reckless by taking John to an undisclosed hospital, and having you receive news that he had died." Sherlock's face contorted with rage and disbelief and his brother went on. Mycroft all but prayed that John would walk through the door already.

"You made me think he was dead to help me!?" Sherlock was livid beyond rational thought.

"And it was a terrible mistake on my part!" Mycroft tried to reason.

Sherlock was silent as he tried to control his breathing. He turned away and began to think of the previous day. Small inconsistencies began to make themselves known. Lestrade's hesitant concern, how there was no other visible patients in the hospital, how he had never heard anything from Harry or Mrs Hudson… He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed. Another thought pushed Its way to the front of his mind.

"Did you ever consider not informing me…?" He asked. Before Mycroft could stop himself, he answered.

"It was briefly considered but quickly dropped." Mycroft's voice weakened at the end of the sentence as he realized what he said. Sherlock saw red.

He spun around and swung his fist. It harshly collided with his brother's jaw. Mycroft lost his balance and fell, landing with a dull thud. His umbrella clattered on the floor next to him. Before either of them could react further, scrambling was heard on the other side of the door.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock froze. He thought he'd never hear that voice again. He watched the door, motionless. Mycroft stood up and rubbed his jaw. John threw open the door. He quickly spotted Sherlock and walked up to him, completely ignoring the government official at his side.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" The detective stood motionless. He stared at at the figure in front of him as if he was seeing a ghost. John patiently waited for him to respond.

"John?" He asked quietly. John's frantic expression softened.

"Yeah. It's me." He replied. Trying to sound reassuring. Mycroft took the distraction as an opportunity to slip out of the flat. Neither man missed him. or even noticed his leave.

Sherlock forcefully pushed down his emotions and ignored his watering eyes as he snapped out of his trance.

John was alive. Not just alive, but standing before him back in 221b.

Sherlock felt a rush of relief as he finally began to wrap his obnoxiously large brain around it. And without thinking, he threw his arms around his friend in a tight hug.

John, as surprised as he was, would have happily accepted the rare show of emotion from the detective. But in this situation he couldn't stop the short yell of pain that forced its way out of his throat. He felt Sherlock instantly tense, and pull away. He felt a stab of guilt upon seeing the horrified look on Sherlock's face.

"John…I'm sorry." Sherlock chastised himself for being such an idiot. First John takes a bullet for him, and "dies". He mopes and cries about about and then finally gets him back. And what's the first thing he does? He hurts him. He internally cringed as he began deduce John's injuries.

 _Slight limp. Likely a pulled muscle from falling after the initial injury._

 _Fidgeting. Stiff posture. Labored breathing. Obviously concealing the true extent of the pain_

 _Wearing a cast. Stitches are most certainly still fresh. Clearly released too early._

 _Unconsciously guarding side. Wound from a chest tube? Yes. The bullet would have absolutely pierced a lung._

For the first time since the incident, Sherlock could think. He realized this as he mentally rattled off deductions in his head with crystal clarity. But he couldn't ponder that now. There were more important matters to attend to.

"You were released too early. You need to lie down." He quickly said as he carefully grabbed John's arm, and began leading him to the couch. With his adrenaline spent, and the pain once again forcing its way through, John cooperated. With Sherlock's assistance, slowly lowered himself on it.

As soon as he settled. Sherlock ran off to the bathroom. He grabbed the oversized duffle bag turned med kit that John had put together. The kit had been created for Sherlock due to his refusal to seek any medical attention whenever he was injured. John had learned from Mycroft that he was the only doctor Sherlock had let go near him in years.

For Sherlock, it was about time that he had returned the favor. He hauled over his shoulder and made his way to the living room once more. He figured that he could start with painkillers, and possibly change out the dressings. Arriving in the room he set the bag down on his chair and began to rummage through it.

He was about to ask John how long ago his chest had been wrapped when he was stopped my a faint snore. Looking over. John had fallen asleep. Sherlock silently debated whether or not he should wake him. Although he acted rested and alert earlier, the bags under his eyes were more telling. Coming to a decision, he closed the bag, and lowered in to the floor next to him.

He collapsed in the now vacant seat. He could still hardly believe that John was alright. The last day and a half had felt like a nightmare. Terrifying, and scarring. But still containing a surreal, hazy effect. But that didn't matter now. It was over.

He was still too shaken. He didn't want to stray too far from John. So he leaned back, allowing his head to hang over the back. Fully relaxing into the chair. He was quickly lulled to sleep by the soft sound of John's snoring.


End file.
